Trail of Red
by SheWasFlying
Summary: England has been hunting an evil as old as himself for centuries. And now, in 1875, he follows it to the untamed lands of America, where it may just find the means to make itself indestructible.


**Warnings**: This story contains vampires. Yeah, I'm going there. Sorry. And with vampires comes blood and gore, and just a bit of slash (there won't be much, just a wee bit, mostly thanks to a creeper!vampire and France.) There are also a few original characters, but apart from the main villain, none of them will play major parts. Another also: I've formed a little bit of head canon when it comes to Hetalia, and you're going to see it here. You'll probably know it when you see it, I think.

**A/N:** Ah, OK, I'm nervous about this one. Vampires. Jeez, didn't think I'd ever write about vampires. But here it is. I present to you, friends, my third attempt at writing Hetalia fanfiction. Let me know how I did?

**Disclaimer:** Though it pains her to say it, SheWasFlying does not own Hetalia: Axis Powers.

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**Epilogue**

_London, England  
1875_

"After all these years, you've still not learned your lesson."

Arthur felt a hand, cold and smooth, lift his cheek from the wet ground. He did not know why his face was pressed against the ground, or why his body ached so, or who was shifting him around as if he were a bag of flour. Breathing was difficult; his chest refused to work properly. And there was a terrible, sharp pain spreading through his head that kept him from any clear thoughts or memories.

"Look at you, my country. Such a mess. Ah, but falling six stories will do that to you, won't it?"

He was sitting up against something, now. Someone tugged briskly at his clothing. His head lolled forward and back, knocking against the hard surface behind him, and the pain, which had just begun to subside, doubled. He groaned, struggled to remember what had brought him here.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" The hands grasped both sides of his head and held him still. Something deathly cold pressed against his cheek, and a violent shudder ran though him as the voice hissed into his ear, "It is nothing compared to the pain I wish I could put you through. How I loathe you, Arthur Kirkland. You've pursued me for far too long, to the point where your pathetic efforts to destroy me are no longer enjoyable. You've become quite a thorn, _England_."

Beyond the pain, some morsel of memory was being teased. He knew this voice.

_Who are you_, he wanted to ask. _What have you done to me, you bloody arse_?

"I do so wish I could be rid of you forever," the voice, a man's deep voice, said. "How I wish. But I've not the means to destroy an entire country. No, I cannot be rid of you forever."

The pain was still sharp, but less so, and he found he could finally think without feeling as if his skull would split in two. He was healing. Being an immortal creature did have its benefits.

The coldness against his face shifted. It was a cheek, he realized, as cold and smooth as the hands that held his face. He shuddered. No living being could be this cold. It was the cold that belonged only to death, and chilled the flesh of the damned and soulless.

_Oh, bloody fantastic._

"Nicolas," he said. He struggled to open his eyes. The world was dark, and the face before him was pale against the black of night. The eyes were green and bright and too familiar.

"Oh, Arthur, I've no time for banter," Nicolas said. There was blood smeared across his lips and chin. He noticed Arthur glaring at it and smiled. "And no time to clean up, either. You interrupted my last meal quite suddenly."

"You bastard," Arthur growled. "You-"

"Are leaving." The beast took hold of Arthur's shirt lapels and tugged them back, until Arthur's neck was bare. He stroked him from shoulder to jaw, grinning when the country tried to jerk away. "You've always had such a lovely neck, Arthur."

"Don't touch me!" Arthur tried to raise an arm to slap him away, but he was still too weak, too pained. He settled for snarling. "And what do you mean you're leaving? You're staying here where I can kill you!"

"Ah, but there you are! You've come to close to ending my life lately. Far too close. I'm not ready yet, Arthur Kirkland. I don't believe I ever will be. It will be painful," he added after a moment. "Leaving what's been my home for centuries. But I need a new bloodline to suck dry. We are old, England, too close in age, and your blood has been failing me lately. I need to start anew. With young blood." He pressed a finger against Arthur's pulse. "And new . . . opportunities."

No. _No._ Arthur had come too far to let the damned blood sucking demon escape him now. He struggled to push away from the wall. Nicolas held him back against it, one hand gripping his aching shoulder, the other curled around his neck.

"Be still," Nicolas said. "I understand that you will miss me terribly. And I may miss you. Perhaps, to ease our parting, one last bite?"

"No! Get away from me!"

"Oh come now, one little bite."

Nicolas covered Arthur's face with one hand and forced him to turn to the side, stretching his neck. Arthur struggled, but his movements were sluggish and weak, and Nicolas's lips were on his neck—

"Arthur! Arthur, where are you!"

The vampire sighed against Arthur's neck. "He has always had bad timing, hasn't he? Alas, I will taste you only in my dreams." He raised his lips to Arthur's ear. "At least until we meet again. How soon will that be, do you think?"

He pressed something cold into Arthur's hand and shoved against his face. Arthur had a brief moment to silently curse like the pirate he'd once been before his head cracked against the wall. A familiar pain blinded him.

He moaned and gripped his head, and heard someone running down the alley- for that was where he was, he realized through the pain. A dark, dirty alley in London, between two high buildings.

As he tried to remember what streets he was near, he heard a woman's shriek in the distance. Curse the damned bastard! Had he not eaten enough already?

Minutes passed, and the pain subsided enough for him to risk standing. He used the wall for support and rose unsteadily.

Quick footsteps reached him. He looked up, wincing, and reluctantly admitted relief at seeing the slender figure of France coming near.

"Arthur!" Francis gasped and reached out to steady the shorter man. "_Mon Dieu!_ What happened?"

"Bastard threw me off a building," Arthur said. He refused to lean against Francis, though he accepted his attempts to keep him from tipping over. "I ran into him feeding on a woman. I chased him, followed him into a building and up. . ." He ran a hand down his face and sighed. "He snuck up behind me on the roof, threw me off. _Damn it._"

Francis frowned. He tugged Arthur's shirt and coat closed, covered the bared skin of his neck. "He did not bite you?"

"He tried." Arthur waved Francis's hands away. "Then we heard you, and he ran. The _coward_. Wait," he gripped Francis's arm. "Who did he harm? Did you see? Is she alive?"

"She? I did not see him harm anyone. He came out from the alley and ran down the street, Arthur. I did not go after him, I feared you were hurt—"

"I heard a woman scream!"

Francis blushed. Arthur slapped a hand over his face. "You?"

"He is a frightening sight, bolting out of the dark like that! And covered in blood, how unsightly—"

"Never mind. The fact is he's gone. Probably half way to the docks by now."

"The docks?"

The two men began to walk down the alley, side by side, Francis still steadying Arthur with one hand on his shoulder. Arthur straightened out his coat and dusted the front off, scowling. "Yes, the docks. He's leaving the island."

"Leaving! Good riddance! I will sleep easy tonight knowing his ghastly form is far, far away." Francis paused and stared in horror at Arthur. "Wait! He is not going to _my_ territories, is he?"

"No, no. And we're going follow him, you daft fool. We can't let him spread his terror across the world as he so wishes!"

"Where, then?"

They paused on the cobbled street. Arthur held his hand out. The crescent moon gave just enough light to shine on the object in his hand, the cold thing Nicolas had pressed into it.

Arthur sighed. "He couldn't have made it more obvious."

In the center of his hand, golden and heavy against his palm, was a small figurine. It was an eagle, wings spread wide, eyes painted blue.

"Pack your closet, Francis," Arthur said, holding the tiny eagle up to the light. "We're going to America."

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**A/N:** Done! Phew! Been wanting to get this story outta my head and onto the computer for a while. I hope to update it by the end of next week. I would really love to hear your opinion on it. And please remember, as I said earlier, I'm still fairly new to Hetalia, and I'm still trying to get the hang of writing for these characters. Any help with characterization would be very much appreciated. Any constructive criticism at all would be loved.

Gracias!


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